


The Only One That Needs to Know

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Bed-Wetting, Dehydration, Diapers, Embarrassment, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, HYDRA Trash Party, Healing, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incontinence, M/M, Neglect, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Shame, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: Bucky can't control his body.  He can only control what secrets he keeps.





	The Only One That Needs to Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/gifts).



> Inspired by [this prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=4259426#cmt4259426) from the Hydra Trash Meme: _Between the brain frying, trauma, and generally having other people managing every part of his body, Bucky has lost the ability to control his bodily functions. HYDRA manages this by keeping him in diapers, and he felt no sense of shame about this until some asshole STRIKE members started bringing up what a pain in the ass it is to have to change him, making fun of him when he loses control during a gangbang, humiliating him for the mess. Maybe giving him punishments, such as refusing to change him because they told him to hold it and he couldn't._
> 
> _And then, when he's back with the Avengers and trying to recover, a lot of accidents occur. Basically I want to see Avengers being generally extremely supportive of a very humiliated Bucky, and trying to comfort him in the best way they can._
> 
> _Bonus points for recovering Bucky being very resistant to diapers but eventually ending up having to admit he needs them._
> 
> _All the bonus points if, at some point, he ends up trying to have sex with one of the Avengers (preferably Steve, but Sam or Nat would work too) and has an accident in the middle of the act. He's horribly ashamed and they have to comfort him while coaxing out the stories of abuse by the STRIKE team, trying to convince him that he's not dirty and he's worthy of love. I would also love to see the partner getting into the shower or bath with Bucky and very gently cleaning him up, and even though he knows logically that they wouldn't hurt him, he's still surprised because he had the abuse response conditioned so deeply he almost expected punishment._
> 
> In the final section of this story, there is a very brief reference to fecal incontinence, without much of any detail beyond mentioning that it's happened. If you'd still prefer to avoid this, skip the three paragraphs following the paragraph ending with _Steve doesn’t need to know the details_ toward the end of the fic.

The asset only knows what he’s done by the dripping.

His being is reduced to pain and misfiring signals. Small spasms wrack his body and the aching throughout him compounds, the pressure in his skull growing tighter and tighter until white fireworks spark across his vision. The asset tries to shut his eyes, but his body won’t respond. Any signals from his mind are lost before they reach their destination, bounced back as his muscles tense and release again and again. Every inch of his flesh is itching, stinging, raw from overstimulation. The asset can only taste plastic, can only smell burning. And everything he sees is marred by white.

But he can hear the dripping, even as fingers dig into his jaw, forcing it open to tug the mouth guard out. His ears are ringing but the dripping is louder, each new burst of noise like a nail driven through his forehead.

Above him is a face the asset can’t recognize, one etched with jagged white lines like a damaged photograph. The face’s eyes travel down the plane of the asset’s body, and the mouth twists. “Disgusting,” it says, lips pulled back to bare too white teeth.

The asset cannot grasp what the mouth finds disgusting. He lies there, a jumble of frayed nerves and tendons trying desperately to knit themselves back to a coherent whole. He is nothing but itching and white hot needles and that all-encompassing, pounding drip.

*

When it happens in Steve’s apartment, the asset breaks a glass.

It hadn’t been a problem on the run, not that he can remember. Sometimes the fragments of memories and the lack of maintenance had made the days run together—like the chalk drawings on the sidewalks in the rain, he remembers making those now, though his hands had both been flesh then—and he has no idea if he remembered to drink in those days. And no idea if there were accidents then.

If there were, no one was there to _see._

Steve is here now. The asset is on Steve’s bed and Steve cried when he found the asset on the fire escape, saying how happy he was to see him, how happy he was that the asset’s alive. No one had ever been happy to see him before. At best, they were happy at the havoc he could wreak.

But Steve doesn’t give the asset a gun or a mission. He gives him plate after plate of food and glass upon glass of water, urging him to sit on the bed and telling him he looks like hell. He doesn’t sound angry when he says it, though. Doesn’t drag the asset to a wet room and turn on a cold hose. Instead he lets the asset sit on his bed and even lets the asset keep his clothes on as he does.

He’s so gentle, so permissive, and the asset is stupid enough to forget. He feels _alive_ sitting on Steve’s bed. He feels _human_ , and he lets himself sit there, guard down, and drink that feeling in.

Until there’s burning warmth down the inseam of the asset’s pants, and the fantasy floods out of him just as quickly.

The asset thinks he gasps. His heart is so loud and then the glass in his hands shatters, raining water and shards down onto his body and the bedspread. Rivulets of blood run from between his fingers and down his wrist, and he deserves the hurt but he can’t make himself _stop_ , he never could control it no matter how HYDRA hated cleaning up his messes, and he’s soiling Steve’s bed and he broke Steve’s glass and Steve will never want to see him again, will never—

Steve is holding the asset’s wrist, sucking a breath through his teeth as he looks at the shards of glass in the asset’s palm. The asset braces himself for the shouting, the blows, but Steve doesn’t leave bruises as he releases the asset’s wrist. He doesn’t even acknowledge that the asset’s still pissing on his bed, hot and horrible and surely so glaringly different from the icy cold water pooling around his legs.

Until he retrieves a first aid kit from the bathroom, Steve doesn’t say anything at all. “Here, Buck.” He sets the kit on the nightstand, retrieving tweezers from it. “This won’t be fun, but I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” the asset says. His voice is shaking.

“It’s not your fault.” Steve’s free hand pins the asset’s fingers against the bedspread, holding him there so softly. “I know from experience how strong that arm of yours is. I shouldn’t have given you a glass.”

The asset can’t speak. He’s shaking all over now, holding his breath. Steve must have noticed—they always noticed—but all he’s looking at is the asset’s palm. Maybe he doesn’t see. Maybe he won’t realize how disgusting and wretched the asset is.

“Hey.” Steve looks up then and Bucky feels his stomach drop. But Steve only puts down the tweezers and rests his hand on the asset’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Bucky. You’re more important to me than anything I own.”

The asset has never had value. He’s never been something no one owned.

*

There was a time when no one cared.

The asset completed his missions, and his team attended to his needs. He maintained his weapons and they maintained theirs, and the asset could not remember anyone ever complaining. A weapon did not clean or load itself. The others ensured that the Soldier was fed and hydrated. They cleaned him when he needed it and lay him down when he ought to rest. That was the order of things. The missions ran smoothly, and there was never a problem.

Until one day the asset returned from the field. He had been lying in wait for most of the day, unable to move from his vantage point in a tree as he waited to make his shot. He was wet and had been for hours, and the itch had grown unbearable as he made his way back to the safe house.

The commander had taken his gun as he walked in the entryway, and just as readily swatted a hand across the asset’s backside as he continued inside. “Vasiliev,” the commander had barked. “Change the soldier.”

Vasiliev looked young. The Soldier could not remember seeing him on missions before.

At the commander’s order, Vasiliev rolled his eyes and groaned. “That’s disgusting,” he said, voice carrying. “I didn’t sign up to be a nanny.”

“If this work is repellent to you, I’d be happy to send you back to the base,” the commander had answered. “You could stand to be more respectful of our greatest soldier.”

Vasiliev nodded, but as the commander walked away, he spoke under his breath. “I’d expect our greatest soldier to be housebroken,” he muttered. “Get your pants off. Filthy pig.”

The safe house was drafty, but the asset’s face burned as he lay back on the floor. There was a foreign sensation flooding his body, worming around in his guts and making his skin crawl.

In the decades that followed, the asset grew much more accustomed to shame. 

*

Bucky doesn’t drink if it can be avoided, not until he’s sure Steve’s asleep and won’t notice the hours Bucky spends holed up in the bathroom, waiting. Most days his skin feels tight and brittle, throat dry and head pounding, but he endures. He can bear pain; he was trained to carry on despite it.

No one ever taught him to bear humiliation.

If Steve sees the way Bucky avoids drinking, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Maybe he thinks it’s not worth addressing, not when Bucky struggles with nightmares and flinches at every touch, leaves each therapy session with his eyes red-rimmed and sore, and constantly forgets how to be human. Maybe all of those things demand so much attention that Steve doesn’t notice that Bucky doesn’t drink.

Whether Steve’s turning a blind eye or oblivious, Bucky’s able for the most part to keep himself under control. The accidents are mostly confined to the night, either in the bathroom or contained to sheets that can be washed when Steve leaves the apartment. Any leak that Bucky can’t hold back in the day is small, easily hidden or disguised by spilling water onto himself.

Steve often looks as if he is holding back tears when his eyes meet Bucky’s, but he never looks as if he’s struggling to contain disgust. Bucky lets himself breathe. Slips back into the false sense of security.

Until the sharp reminder that he’s broken and repulsive.

It comes when Steve has left DC, after promising over and over to return by tomorrow. Two of his friends, the assassin and the archer, remain at the apartment in his stead. Steve had called this moral support. Romanoff calls it a friendly visit. Bucky knows that they’re here to mind him, but their presence isn't troubling. He has met them before and they are vastly preferable to the handlers he remembers.

“Let’s get some lunch,” Romanoff says a few hours after Steve’s departure. 

Bucky assumes that she means they should cook something from the pantry or refrigerator, but Barton adds, “I know a great Indian place a few blocks from here.”

“Come on.” Romanoff directs her words at Bucky now, leaning in from her position perched on the arm of the couch. He does not flinch. “It’s better than just waiting around for Steve, right?”

It isn’t, but maybe this is a test. His therapist could have recommended more social interactions, or Steve might have wanted to see if Bucky would be pathetic and useless without him around. So he nods, grabs a jacket, and follows Romanoff and Barton out the door.

The restaurant is crowded even at midday. The minutes tick by after they’ve placed their orders, and Bucky keeps finding himself drinking to fill his now growling stomach. To keep from speaking. He doesn’t want anyone to ask why he ordered the same as Barton— _can’t you make decisions for yourself?_ —doesn’t want to hold a conversation and demonstrate how awful he is at sounding like a whole person. So he drinks and stares at the floor, letting Romanoff and Barton talk to each other and ignoring the pauses they leave for him.

There’s no warning when it happens. There never is; his body can’t hold on long enough for the need to make itself known. He’s walking home, lingering slightly behind Barton and Romanoff, and then he’s standing, frozen, staring wide-eyed at the puddle growing on the sidewalk beneath him.

_Stupid,_ some part of him says. Some part that’s far, far away from the rest of him, blushing and gasping and trying so hard not to cry. _You’re so stupid. You’re disgusting. There are toddlers who have more control of themselves than this. Why are you so—_

Barton is touching his arm, forehead creased. He looks uncertain. Probably doesn’t know which insult to use first.

Tears well up in Bucky’s eyes, just as uncontrollable once they start to spill down his face. Barton’s rubbing his back and Romanoff has his hand, leading him forward, and their mouths are moving but Bucky can’t hear the words over his heartbeat, over the memories in his head saying _disgusting worthless stupid dirty weak._

He can’t speak as they lead him home, choking on his shame. He can’t speak when Romanoff leads him to the bathroom or when Barton opens the door to set a change of clothes on the sink. It’s only once he’s clean and dressed that Bucky can face them, forcing himself out of the bathroom with his hair still soaking and dripping onto his shirt.

“Please don’t tell Steve.” He ought to apologize. Punishment was inevitable and now he’s only making it worse by begging. But once he’s started, Bucky can’t stop. “Please, please don’t tell Steve it won’t happen again you don’t need to tell him you can do whatever you wa—”

“Hey,” Barton says. His hand finds Bucky’s and it isn’t painful when Barton squeezes his fingers. “Bucky, no. It’s all right. No one’s mad.”

“We weren’t thinking,” Romanoff adds. “Just because you’re doing better doesn’t mean you were ready to go somewhere strange and jam-packed with strangers. It’s not your fault.”

Bucky can’t comprehend any of it. If this is a trick before the punishment, he doesn’t want to play along. “Please don’t tell Steve.” Steve looks at him like he matters. Bucky can’t bear to lose that.

“We won’t,” Romanoff says, and Barton nods. “You can tell him what you want, when you want to.”

They stay in for the rest of the night. In the morning, Steve looks so happy when he hugs Bucky. He tells him how glad he is to be home, and it doesn’t look like he’s fighting back loathing or repulsion.

Natasha and Clint must have kept their word.

*

The asset is bent over the table. With every thrust, his abdomen collides against the wood, knocking the breath from him. The force of the second-in-command’s movements make the asset’s hair hit his face, irritating his eyes.

Counting the seconds, the asset ignores these things.

Three minutes, twenty seconds. The asset has never known the second in command to last longer than five. He counted the seconds of four STRIKE members before this, and once the second in command is spent, he will count the seconds of the commander. Then he’ll be able to put his pants back on. The team may still want his mouth, but that’s easier. The asset can’t remember how he learned to suck, but he’s learned well enough that no one lasts very long.

Three minutes, forty-five seconds.

Someone spills beer onto his hair. The asset shuts his eyes.

Three minutes, fifty seconds.

There’s a splattering sound. The beer again, probably.

Four minutes.

The second-in-command tightens his hold on the asset’s hips, jerks him back. There’s a familiar creep of heat down the asset’s legs that’s not thick enough to be come. His eyes fly open.

No. Not here.

The asset’s hands tighten on the table, splintering the wood. He tries to stop but the second-in-command is still thrusting. His stomach is shoved against the table again and he can’t _stop_ , he can’t—

“What the fuck?”

The second-in-command stops moving. He’s seen. They’re all going to see.

The first blow to his head makes the asset stumbling, vision blurring. It’s a relief; now he doesn’t have to see the look on their faces. The ringing in his ears almost blocks out the laughter and insults.

They shove his face in the mess as the commander takes a turn. Counting the seconds no longer makes it easier to bear.

The asset isn’t allowed to stay in the safe house that night. The commander says dogs sleep outside.

*

The thing about Steve is that he doesn’t keep himself confined at home.

He has friends, from Peggy and Sam in DC to the rest of the Avengers in New York. He goes for runs. He visits the VA. He tries new foods and goes on walks and leaves, for days on end, to save the world. When Steve was in SHIELD, his teammates were HYDRA agents. Some of the missions he’d gone on undoubtedly served HYDRA’s agenda. The same day he found out that Bucky hadn’t died, Steve says he’d also realized that SHIELD was a front, indistinguishable from the kind of threat it had sought to destroy.

But even after all of that, it’s like Steve has no fear. He still smiles and makes small talk with cashiers on the rare occasions Bucky goes with him to the store. He befriends the people at the VA with seemingly no worry that they might be HYDRA members in disguise. He’s virtually unchanged from the man in Bucky’s memories despite what he’s been through. Sometimes Bucky finds it beyond belief. Sometimes, when Steve leaves with the Avengers and Bucky paces up and down the hall worrying, it’s infuriating.

Still, it’s not without benefits. When Steve goes for a run or to meet with friends or other things _normal_ people do, it gives Bucky the time to dispose of evidence without fear of being caught. He’ll wave Steve goodbye, wait for the sound of his bike starting up outside, and then run to his room, gathering the soiled sheets and laundry hidden on the floor of his closet. He’s damn lucky that Steve has his own washer and dryer, and luckier still that Steve’s outgoing. Even if he hates sitting at home, missing Steve and wishing he weren’t so broken that he can hardly stand to go outside unless Steve’s taking him to therapy.

When Steve is gone, Bucky doesn’t have that freedom to cover his tracks.

This week, Steve is in New York. It’s not an Avengers mission; Steve had explained that Stark made a prototype for a new version of his shield, and he wanted Steve to come test it out. Bucky was welcome to come along, Steve had said, but Bucky wasn’t about to set foot in any building where an AI could watch his every move. Record his every accident. Like Stark wouldn’t jump at the chance to degrade the man who had killed his parents. Just imagining the look on Steve’s face if Stark were to show him the footage made Bucky’s stomach churn.

“I’m good,” Bucky had said. “Besides, I don’t want to miss therapy.”

That much was true. His doctor actually seems to enjoy talking to him, and she’s the only person he has regular contact with besides Steve. She says he’s improving steadily, though Bucky doesn’t believe it. Sure, maybe he can see himself as more than just a weapon now, but that’s something everyone should be able to do. Being less of a freak than he used to be doesn’t make him normal.

So Bucky had stayed behind. And Steve didn’t want to leave him alone for a week, so he’d asked Sam to come over.

The thing is, Sam took the week off work. And he hasn’t gone running in the mornings like he usually does with Steve because he doesn’t want to leave Bucky alone. So Bucky’s reduced to sneaking to the washer in the middle of the night and praying that the sound doesn’t wake Sam.

For the first two nights, he doesn’t hear Sam stir. He sits there as the washer runs, too afraid to move again, with his head resting on his knees. The relief at not being caught is as overwhelming as it is pathetic. _You’re a national hero. You’re the world’s greatest assassin. And all you have to look forward to in life is successfully hiding that you can’t stop pissing yourself._

On the third night, Sam is sitting up waiting and Bucky’s heart stops.

“Hey,” Sam says. “You want me to get that so you can lie back down?”

Sam was waiting for him. Sam _knows._ Nobody knows, not even his therapist. Not even Steve. Even Natasha and Clint thought that what they witnessed was a one-off. Didn’t they? What if they told Sam? What if they told _Steve_? Steve must think he’s disgusting if he knows, Steve isn’t coming back, he hates Bucky so much that he can’t even punish him in person—

“Bucky?”

Bucky bites through his lip. There’s sweat beading along his hairline.

“I didn’t mean to ambush you.” Sam raises his hands up slowly. “I’ve heard you getting up and I figured you could use more sleep. That’s all, Bucky.”

Bucky can’t read his face. He’s never trusted Sam. Steve was Bucky’s best friend before he was the Winter Soldier. Steve has a reason to want him around even after Bucky nearly killed him. Sam doesn’t have that, and Bucky tore his wings apart and kicked him off of the helicarrier. Why would Sam willingly spend time with him after that?

Sam is Steve’s friend. They run together and laugh together and Sam isn’t a broken, needy person who can’t function on his own. He isn’t a murderer. Steve must like Sam more. Steve will take Sam’s side once Sam tells him how filthy Bucky is.

“I can leave you to it,” Sam says. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

“Does—does Steve know?” Bucky’s voice comes out thick and halting. His hands are shaking around the sheets.

“Not that he’s told me.”

That’s not an answer. Though Bucky doubts he could trust the answer even if he were given one. “He can’t know.”

Sam rubs a hand at the back of his head. He sinks down against the couch cushions. “Do you need to talk?”

“Steve can’t know,” Bucky repeats.

“I’m not gonna tell him, all right? Not my place. That’s up to you.” Sam shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry. Bringing this up half-asleep in the middle of the night wasn’t my brightest move. But really, Bucky, you’re not alone. It happens. A lot of vets at the VA deal with it. Nightmares are rough, I get that.”

But it’s not the nightmares. It happens even when Bucky doesn’t dream at all. It happens in the day. He can’t even be fucked up the way a normal person is.

Sam’s still talking. “There are resources your therapist could probably—”

“I’m handling it.”

He can tell that Sam doesn’t believe him, but Sam doesn’t say so outright. He just shrugs. “You might get more sleep if you wore protection.”

“No.” The answer’s immediate. Bucky’s hands wind in the sheets and he can hear the fabric starting to tear.

“Like I said, it’s up to you. Just think about it, all right? It could help.”

“ _No._ ” His voice is so sharp and loud that Bucky worries he’s woken the neighbors. “Steve can’t know.”

“He wouldn’t have to.” Sam looks confused. Or maybe just tired. “Not if you didn’t want to tell him.”

Of course he’d know. The handlers always knew. They laughed or yelled or rolled their eyes. They called the asset revolting. Weak. Nasty and a baby and no better than an animal.

“—have your own money, right?” Sam is saying. “I could walk with you to a store if you don’t want to go out alone—”

But the handlers only knew because it was procedure. Just like they knew how often to give him MREs and when to refill his canteen. Because they were told.

“Bucky?”

His face is burning now. He’s so _stupid._ HYDRA wasn’t omniscient and no matter what his therapist says about PTSD and battered person syndrome and all the delicate words that dance around saying his head is fucked, there’s no excuse for giving them that power. HYDRA’s in shambles and Bucky’s still letting them ruin his live.

Of course Steve wouldn’t know. Steve doesn’t know about any of this. And Bucky won’t have to dehydrate himself. Won’t live in constant fear of giving himself away. He might even become something approaching a functional person.

Sam’s speaking but Bucky doesn’t bother to listen. “All right. Tomorrow. We’ll get it tomorrow. I’m going back to bed.”

And in the morning, that’s what they do.

Bucky can’t meet the cashier’s eyes at the pharmacy. He knows too well the look he’d see there.

*

“Fuck off,” says the handler.

They have been in the field for twenty-three hours. It took twelve before the asset’s body gave out the first time. It took another ten for it to happen again, and the asset did not receive the necessary maintenance after either incident.

The first time, the asset held his tongue. The handler had said to hold it. He had said he “wasn’t dealing with that shit.” And they were still active when it happened. The asset would not jeopardize the mission for his comfort.

But now they are at the safe house. The asset’s skin no longer itches; instead it feels raw, as if someone has taken a sander to his flesh. That asset did that to a target once in order to retrieve information. The tactic had been very successful.

The asset notified the handler of his condition an hour ago. Since then he has remained motionless. Movement is painful, and every step he takes sends trickles of urine down his thighs.

The handler had not responded. The asset’s current state is detrimental to his functioning, and so he’d asked again.

“Fuck off,” the handler repeats. “I’m not your goddamn mommy. I told you to hold it.”

“But I can’t—” The asset cuts the protest short. He is not allowed to question his superiors.

“You can’t?” The handler laughs at him. He places his hand in the center of the asset’s chest, pushing him back. Unpleasant coldness drips down the asset’s thighs, itching the whole way. “Christ, I can’t believe the fist of HYDRA’s so goddamn useless. Now get out of my sight.”

“Please,” the asset says.

The handler throws the contents of his canteen into the asset’s face. The asset is made to sit in the corner “like the little brat he is.” His skin burns and sitting makes him leak, soaking through the back of his pants. The asset stares up at the ceiling, silent. His eyes sting long after the water the handler threw in his face has dried.

*

They’re calling it date night, but it’s really not much different from any other evening Bucky spends with Steve. Not yet. They had dinner, took a walk around the monuments. Those are both things they’ve done more frequently in the past few months, though usually not in the same outing.

Bucky retreats to his room when they get home, ostensibly to take off his shoes. With shaking hands he strips from the waist down, stashing the diaper in a trash bag he keeps hidden under a floorboard he pried loose after he bought protection for the first time. He empties the trash whenever Steve isn’t home.

After he buttons his jeans back up, Bucky finds himself lying back on the bed, trying to steady his breathing. This is _good_. It’s been a good day. Steve loves him and he loves Steve and Steve hasn’t gotten sick of Bucky in the whole time he’s been living here, over a year now, and Steve won’t hurt him.

They haven’t had sex since the war.

Bucky hadn’t remembered at first that they were lovers. The Smithsonian display and all the biographies just called them best friends, and Steve wasn’t about to bring it up in the days when Bucky still struggled not to interpret every offhand statement as an order. He’d been in no state to continue that kind of relationship. Steve wasn’t sure that Bucky would want to pick things up where they left off even if he could remember, after everything he’d been through.

Of course Bucky still wants to be with Steve.

But he hadn’t at first. Bucky remembers the day when those memories first returned to him: he’d been putting away dishes and ended up shattering a bowl in his hands. He’d tried to run away, remembering the intimacy but lacking the context to interpret it as any different than the way HYDRA had used his body. Natasha had to track him down and convince him to come home.

It’s been a long road from there to here, full of discussions about consent and safety words and long, incredible unerotic joint therapy sessions about what Bucky could handle and when he’d feel able to handle it, what he could do to get himself to that state and how Steve could help. Now they’re in the clear. Bucky’s officially Sane Enough to fuck, and he’s not going to let his nerves wreck this for him.

Bucky lets out his breath as he rises.

Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room. He’s got a record playing, some old song Bucky can’t remember the name of. It’s slow and soothing and Bucky decides that he’s fine with fucking to Billie Holiday melodies.

Not that there’s going to be any action for a while yet. They’re supposed to take it slow. Bucky’s willing to drag this out all night just get to feel that good again, that loved and that wanted.

“Hey,” he says, settling down on the couch beside Steve.

“You okay?” Steve asks. He doesn’t sound worried; he’s asking for permission.

“Never better.”

Steve squeezes his hand, and as the minutes tick by, his fingers move upward.

It’s not exactly sexual, the way Steve’s tracing his fingers over Bucky’s shoulders and chest. It feels almost benign to Bucky. The touches are safe in a way that no touch has felt in nearly a century. Bucky feels himself start to stir a little, even though his clothes are still between them. He feels calm above all, and safe in his skin. Safe enough to move.

Bucky ends up on Steve’s lap, gripping the hem of Steve’s shirt and pulling it up over his head. His thighs brush Steve’s groin and Steve’s a lot harder than Bucky is—hauling himself on top of Steve has made him flag to next to nothing—but that’s okay. They have all night. They have forever.

Then the shirt’s off and Steve runs his hands first through his own hair and then through Bucky’s. Their lips touch and Bucky doesn’t stop breathing. His heart doesn’t skip a beat. He’s _fine_ and he can really do this and the realization floods him with relief and warmth and—

“Bucky?”

Steve’s voice against his lips, questioning. Bucky assumes he’s asking for permission to continue and tries to answer with a kiss, but Steve’s turning his head away. “Buck—”

And Bucky feels it. And he does stop breathing.

There’s wetness spreading across his thighs, pouring down from his jeans. Onto Steve. He can’t stop and he’s getting it on _Steve,_ and Steve is staring at him, lips parting like he’s about to speak, and Bucky can’t bear to hear what he’ll say and he’s up and running, hyperventilating, his breaths drowning out all other sound.

He ends up in the bathroom, huddled on the floor of the shower. His pants grow cold and irritating, but Bucky doesn’t move. What’s the point? Steve knows now. Steve will never want to touch him again.

“Bucky?”

It’s Steve. Bucky never heard the door open, and the burning in his face only increases when he realizes he didn’t shut it in his panic. The only thing between him and total rejection now is a flimsy shower curtain, and he’d pulled that halfway off the rings when he shoved it aside to get in.

“Bucky, hey.” He can see Steve now, standing in the space that the curtain no longer covers. He’s not moving. He’s so still, hands up like Bucky is an animal he doesn’t want to set off. Worse than an animal. Even animals can be housebroken.

Bucky’s skin prickles with fear. He’s freezing. How long did it take Steve to bury his disgust well enough to come in? Maybe he was packing Bucky a bag. This is the last straw; Steve won’t want Bucky in his home anymore. Conditioning is one thing. That can be undone. But Bucky’s broken in a way that can’t be fixed, and how could Steve have the patience for that?

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “Buck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to push that hard.”

He’s not making any sense. Bucky can only stare, still too fearful to move.

“It’s okay,” Steve’s saying. “It’s okay if you’re not ready. I knew we could have setbacks, I’m not angry. And I’m so, so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t realize you were scared.”

He thinks this is his fault. The realization makes Bucky dizzy. Steve thinks he scared Bucky into pissing himself like a child by moving too fast. The evidence of Bucky’s brokenness is on full display and Steve’s still enough of a saint to blame himself. Bucky has no idea how someone as wretched as him could end up this damn lucky.

Steve would buy it if Bucky lies. He’d believe that Bucky was spooked and then Bucky could take better precautions to make sure this won’t happen again. They could move on. Bucky could pass for normal, and Steve would never know.

But Steve’s going to hate himself for doing that to Bucky and Bucky can’t bring himself to lie. Not to Steve. Not after all he’s sacrificed for Bucky’s sake.

“It’s not your fault.” Bucky has to force the words out. His voice is hoarse.

“Oh, Bucky, don’t blame yourself for—”

“You didn’t scare me.” Bucky shuts his eyes. He can’t stand to watch Steve’s concern give way to disgust. “You were perfect. I liked it.”

“No,” Steve says. “Bucky, no. Things aren’t like that anymore, and they never should have been. You don’t have to pretend to enjoy—”

“I was having a good time!” He opens his eyes, though he can’t bring himself to raise his head and face Steve. “I was having the best time I can remember, Steve! You’re wonderful, all right? It’s not your fault I’m so fucking damaged I’m not even housebroken!”

There’s silence and Bucky realizes he’s shaking. He can’t make himself stop.

“Bucky.”

Bucky’s can’t tell if it’s a question or not. “I tried to hide it.” He ought to shut up. He’ll only make Steve hate him more. But it’s exhausting, trying to keep everything hidden from Steve, and Steve will throw him out anyway, so what does it matter? “I bought—I wore—I didn’t want you to know. I had it handled.” He almost laughs at himself. Sitting here covered in piss and saying it’s handled. Yeah right.

Steve exhales, sits down on the closed toilet seat. “You don’t have to hide things, Buck.”

He’s saying that now. Months and months after Bucky made Steve think he was functional, tricked Steve into growing attached. Bucky shakes his head.

“Was it—” Steve bites his lip. He looks like he’s struggling for words. “Was it the chair? What did they do?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, miserable. He lowers his head, but then he ends up just staring at his wet jeans and that’s not any better. “It’s not like they ever explained what they were doing. The chair might've fried the nerves that handle it. Or maybe it’s just ‘cause they wouldn’t let me take care of myself. I just—I don’t get any warning and then—” He cuts himself off, face so hot he feels feverish. Steve doesn’t need to know the details.

“Is it just your bladder?” Steve asks softly. “Or do you—”

“No!” Bucky wishes he were dead. “I mean—I—I don’t—” His stomach is churning again. There’s nothing he can say that will make this go away. Nothing that can fix things between them, not after this. “Not usually. I was almost always back at the base any time I had to—to do that, and they let me use the bathrooms then. Didn’t want to deal with it.”

There’s been a handful of times when he couldn’t make it, and after each instance Bucky’s hidden in the bathroom for hours, scrubbing at his skin in the shower well after the water runs cold, wanting to die. He wants that now too.

“Okay,” Steve says, even though it’s not. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to pry or make you talk about things you can’t handle. I just want to help.”

“You can’t help.” He shouldn’t talk back, but it’s true. Nothing helps. He’s been lying to Steve all this time and there’s no use in offering false hope now that he’s been found out. “I’m broken.”

“That’s not true.” Steve speaks so forcefully that Bucky flinches. He sounds the way he used to in the war right before he’d slam his shield into someone’s face. “Buck, that’s just not true. And if anyone told you that, they were lying. You can’t help what happened to you. This isn’t your fault. Nothing they did is your fault.”

“This is different.” The things HYDRA had made him do, the ways they used his body: they may have been awful, but they had _purpose_. The Winter Soldier had been a legendary assassin. A living weapon. Even the rapes meant that the bastards assaulting him thought he was worth using for pleasure. But this is just pathetic. There’s no hidden silver lining, only shame. “It’s _gross._ ”

Steve shakes his head and he’s _smiling._ It’s a sad little smile, but it’s still there. “Bucky. Come on. You really think this is the worst thing we’ve had to work through? It’s not a big deal, I promise. I was even going to—when you first came back, I knew you were having accidents. I never said anything because you seemed so ashamed and scared and I thought it was from trauma. I thought when it stopped, it was because you felt safer. I didn’t know you were wearing—I’d have said something if I knew what the problem was. But I started to research it a little when you first went to therapy. There are things we can try. Lots of people have problems like this, Bucky. We can get help.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s still trying to process the fact that Steve isn’t throwing him out.

The silence stretches on until Steve stands up. “Come on, let me start the water for you. You can put your clothes in the washing machine, all right? Here.” He takes his bathrobe from a hook on the back of the bathroom door, offering it out.

Bucky can only stare. Steve—he’s offering Bucky his _clothes._ Even after Bucky’s told him he can’t control it. He hasn’t yelled or called Bucky a baby or anything.

“Bucky? You need a minute?”

“You’re not mad?” Bucky asks. His voice is so small.

“Never, Buck.”

Bucky can’t try to stand up. He doesn’t think his legs will hold him. “I might not be able to stop. Ever.”

“I know,” Steve says. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? I won't love you any less.”

He struggles to find his voice. “You still love me?”

“I’ll always love you, Bucky. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

The water is hot when Bucky steps back into the shower. He can’t help marveling at that even though he’s calmed down enough by now to actually believe that Steve won’t throw him out. He’s never used warm water to clean himself up. He’s only ever copied what HYDRA did.

But here the water’s steaming and Steve reaches into the shower, splattering water all over himself as he helps massage the shampoo through Bucky’s hair. It’s not like HYDRA. Bucky closes his eyes, letting the water rinse over him. Things don’t have to be the way they used to, not anymore. HYDRA may have caused this, but they don’t get to decide his life for him now.

“I messed up tonight,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t.” Steve squeezes his shoulder and Bucky tries to believe that. “And anyway, it’s not over yet.”

Then he steps into the shower, jeans and all. He kisses Bucky, holding him tight, and doesn’t seem to mind at all that he’s getting soaked.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from The All-American Rejects' "[Dirty Little Secret.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPDcwjJ8pLg)"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Make a Mess of Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611167) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)




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